


Giggling

by ceywoozle



Series: One Word Bottomjohn Prompts [87]
Category: Sherlock (TV)
Genre: But not really angsty, M/M, Post-Reichenbach, Table Sex
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-02-15
Updated: 2016-02-15
Packaged: 2018-05-20 21:52:34
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,305
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6026536
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/ceywoozle/pseuds/ceywoozle
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>It takes John a year to realise what they've become.</p>
            </blockquote>





	Giggling

A year after Sherlock has died, John has moved in with Greg and he has no idea how it happened.

He sits at the shitty kitchen table drinking tea from a chipped mug and he realises that somehow, at some point along the way, it had become _their_ shitty table and _their_ chipped mug.

He makes a considering noise in his throat and across from him Greg looks up from the newspaper, fork hovering midair on its way to his mouth.

“Hm?” he says.

John looks at him, not quite sure what to say. Does Greg even realise what had happened? If he hadn’t and John points it out will it end up changing everything?

“I was just thinking that,” John says, compromising with himself, “That I should probably move out of Baker Street.”

Greg just stares at him. “Yeah,” he says after a minute. “Sure. If you want.” He looks a bit shifty and puts the fork down. “Think Mrs H will mind?”

John furrows his brow because he hadn’t even thought of Mrs Hudson. Hasn’t actually spoken to her since the last time he had slunk in for supplies and been surprised by her in the hallway. She had looked at him with such disapproval that he’d barely been able to mumble a response to her questions before fleeing again.

“No,” he says. “No, I don’t think she will.”

“Mycroft still holding the flat?”

“Yeah.”

“Weird. Never took him for the sentimental type.”

John just shrugs. He’s never known what to think of Mycroft.

There’s a silence then and it’s weirdly uncomfortable. John shifts restlessly in his chair and Greg clears his throat.

“So,” Greg says. “You think he knows something? About Sherlock? I mean, d’you ever think he’s just...not dead? Still out there somewhere?”

John just looks at him. Knows what he’s asking. Has thought about this almost every day for a year but hearing it said aloud somehow makes it a little too real, a thing to consider and he doesn’t know if he can afford to, not without breaking again. He looks back at a year spent trying to forget his entire life and somewhere along the way had accidentally picked up a new life. With this man. Greg Lestrade, who would never throw himself off a roof, and if he did, would never even think about letting John watch it. And if he did, would never force John to sit down a year later and think _‘okay but what if he didn’t actually? What if he put me through all that and is actually out there somewhere still? What if the lies were a lie and the world ended for no reason at all?’_ No. Greg would never do that. Could never do that. And John, looking at this ordinary man across from him, realises how incredibly grateful he is for that.

“Yeah,” John finally says. “I think about it.”

“And?” Greg asks, and the word is pushed out, as if he’s reluctant to know the answer. His eyes dart downwards, unable to maintain contact.

“And...I don’t know? What if he is? Does it matter at this point?”

Greg looks up. “I think so. Would we...would this...If he hadn’t...would _we?”_

John blinks, isn’t sure what to say. “No,” he says. “No, we wouldn’t.”

Greg freezes for an instant and John sees something too close to regret creep into his face.

 _“So,”_ John says quickly, too emphatically, and Greg’s eyes fly back to him. “Silver linings and all that,” he offers and even though they’re talking about Sherlock being dead—gone, _whatever_ —John can actually feel a grin tugging at the corner of his lips.

And Greg just stares at him and something hard and cautious melts from his eyes and there is something very close to hope left in its place. “Yeah?” he asks and the uncertainty in his voice breaks John’s heart.

“Yeah,” John says and the grin isn’t going away so he looks down at the table instead and the chipped mug in his hand trying to hide it, but a hand reaches for him, dragging his chin up and Greg is leaning over the table, clean shirt dragging through his eggs and kissing John fiercely on the lips.

“Late for work,” John gasps even as he’s stumbling upright, Greg following him from the other side and they meet in the middle, pressed together with hands already dragging at now soiled clothes.

“Fuck work,” Greg pants and pushes John back against the table, pulling John’s trousers down with a determined tug and John starts giggling madly at the thought of Donovan’s outrage if she only knew.

“Off,” Greg growls. “Pants, off.”

“Yes, sir,” John says with a laugh but he does it, kicking his pants and his trousers off frantically while Greg’s mouth closes with that spot on his neck and _oh_ there, _right there._

_“Greg!”_

“On the table, Doctor,” Greg rumbles playfully against his ear and they both break out into giggles and they have never laughed like this before, not while doing this, not after thinking about Sherlock, and John is startled at the sudden fierce flare of _joy_ in his breast, as if something has just woken up inside him and he drags at Greg’s neck, pulling him up and kissing him even as Greg nudges his way between John’s thighs and presses himself in and they both gasp, open-mouthed into each other at that first touch and it feels like the first touch. It feels like the first time they are doing this.

“All the way,” John demands. “Now.”

“Bossy,” Greg grins against his mouth and fumbles for the bottle of cooking oil still on the counter nearby and John never thought he’d be grateful for how small this kitchen is until now. He pumps his hips impatiently while Greg fumbles with his fingers coating himself messily and dripping oil all over the floor and they’re both chuckling breathlessly at the absurdity of this and how much they’ll both regret it when the stains won’t come out of their clothes, but for now neither of them care, not when Greg finally pushes his way forward and John is breathless, wide and open for this man, and he wraps his legs around Greg’s hips and pulls him deeper, needing him inside.

“John, oh god,” Greg gasps and he is wide-eyed in ecstasy as he lets himself go and they’re both moaning, panting into each others skin as Greg makes love to him on their shitty kitchen table in their shitty flat with their cracked and mismatched dishware clattering behind them.

And when John comes it is like something comes undone and he is crying and laughing and moaning at the same time, Greg’s name a blessing as he throws his head back and lets it take him. A few thrusts later and Greg is following, shouting John’s name into his chest as he bends him backwards and pushes himself in as deep as he can go.

And then, inevitably, as they are panting and sweating and trying to remember how to think again, the table collapses. They lie startled and swearing among the broken dishware and the remains of their breakfast and after the second of startled shock wears off and they realise that neither of them are hurt, they both begin to laugh, high and uproarious, cackling madly in the ruins of their kitchen.

When they’re finally able to calm down enough to speak, it’s John who starts it, the thing they’re both thinking.

“We needed new dishes anyway.”

“Yeah,” Greg says, still chuckling into John’s chest. “And a new table.”

“And a new kitchen.”

“A new flat.”

And Greg scrambles up and kisses him, laughing against his lips, and it’s as easy and as difficult as that.


End file.
